


The Mark Of The Righteous Man

by DictionaryWrites



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bruises, Choking, Complicated Relationships, Discipline, Dom/sub, Impulse Control, M/M, Masochism, Mildly Dubious Consent, Oral Sex, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Rough Sex, Season/Series 04, Self-Esteem Issues, Size Kink, Spanking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-03
Updated: 2018-08-03
Packaged: 2019-06-21 10:43:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15555981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: Dean doesn't understand value, doesn't understand the value of himself.Castiel will teach him.





	The Mark Of The Righteous Man

Dean lets out a soft, harsh sound as Castiel backs him up against the wall. He catches Dean off-guard as he does his walk of shame back from some girl’s motel room, stalking slowly in and staring Dean down the entire time. The angel moves slowly, deliberately, and Dean sort of stumbles as he tries to rush back and away from him, but it’s obvious he cannot go fast enough. Fear flares inside him, his mouth dry and his jaw clenched tight, but there’s no point in resisting, no point in trying to throw Cas off if he doesn’t _want_ to be thrown off.

Unstoppable force and all that, you know?

The wings of Dean’s shoulder blades touch back against the ugly motel wallpaper, and Castiel looks  _pissed_  as all Hell: he does, most of the time, sure, but this time he looks like he’s really getting into the Old Testament supply of wrath, a sort of thick tension heavy on the air, and Dean is scared. Scared and a little bit tingly.

 “Cas, I don’t know what—”

“Do not test me,” Cas rumbles, voice low as the fucking sea level in Israel, and Dean feels himself gasp. Castiel puts his right hand on Dean’s jaw, holding it tightly under the pads of his fingers, digging his nails slightly into the flesh, and Dean cries out despite himself. He’s _strong_ , damn strong – stronger than the average demon, Dean would wager, and he chokes out a sound of pain at the pressure against the flesh and the bone.

“What the _fuck_ , Cas?”

“Again! Again, you soak yourself in sin, walk from establishment to establishment, drinking, gambling…” Castiel trails off, curling his lip and looking  _disgusted_. “Your focus upon sexual relations is overt.”

“So? It’s a free country, Cas, so why don’t you just let me be, huh?” Castiel’s mouth twists into something that’s almost a snarl, and then he drops his hand lower, wrapping it around Dean’s throat and  _squeezing_. Dean chokes. Dean chokes, and he can’t get out of Castiel’s hold: he grabs at Castiel’s wrists, but his grip is supernaturally strong, and he can’t get out of it, can’t get  _away_.

Castiel draws Dean towards the bed, throwing him down onto the rickety frame and making it creak, the springs in the mattress rattling, and with a sudden, harsh movement, he pulls Dean’s jeans down, so hard that they rip at the seams, and Dean yells out. “Cas! Cas, whoa, this is pretty past the personal space rule, you know?”

“ _Shut up,_ ” Castiel snaps, and Dean’s mouth shuts with a click. Castiel drags down his pants, too, and his hand – his tax accountant's hand, soft but with callouses worn into the sides of his fingers – wraps around Dean’s cock. He’s oversensitive, recently fucked out with his cock soft from exhaustion, and Dean heaves in a desperate gasp, tipping back his head. Castiel looks down at Dean like he’s the scum of the earth, pinning him down by the throat as he jacks Dean off.

He does it hard, and it chafes a little,  _hurts_  a little, but Dean likes to be thrown around, and despite himself he’s getting it up for fucking  _Castiel_ _despite just finishing with Hanna, or Henrietta, or whatever the Hell her name’d been_. His thumb drags over Dean’s wet head, and Dean wonders if he’s researched this or if he’s doing it from muscle memory alone – it’s fucked up, it’s  _way_  fucked up, but the idea of Castiel watching someone get off, watching  _Dean_ get off…

It drives him wild.

Castiel twists his hand hard, thumb tracing over the vein on the side of Dean’s cock, drawing the wet, clear slick of his pre over the skin, and Dean feels himself let out a heady whine. “Cas, Cas, Cas, you can’t do this, man, Cas—”

“It’s a free country, Dean,” Cas growls, punctuating this by a tighter squeeze around Dean’s throat, and Dean can’t help himself – his balls tighten up and he comes, ropes of white soaking into his Metallica t-shirt, and he writhes underneath the other man, his hips tipping up and into Castiel’s touch.

Castiel wipes his hand, roughly, on the sheet, and he releases Dean’s throat. The skin is tender, and Dean knows that it’s probably going to bruise – he just has to hope it’s not too  _obvious_  a handprint. He’s got one of those already.

“From now on,” Castiel says, using the voice that reminds Dean he’s a military man. It’s a different kind of military, sure, but Castiel is a _soldier_ , and he knows damn well how to give military orders. “No women. No  _men_. You may touch yourself, and that is all. These…  _Distractions_. They are unhealthy, unnecessary, and you will improve. The Seals should be your focus, Dean, not this… _iniquity_.” Castiel leans right over Dean, and Dean feels so tiny, so small underneath Castiel, even though he’s taller than this guy is, even though he’s bulkier. “In the event that you cannot be satisfied, you will call on  _me_. Do you understand?”

“You can’t do this,” Dean whispers, and he thinks of the terror he felt when Castiel first backed him up against a wall, thinks of the power that comes off him. Alastair had done that, back in Hell, had taken the chance to make Dean feel small and tiny and useless, but like this, it’s… It’s different. Despite himself, Dean trusts Cas. Despite himself— Castiel can do this. Dean is pretty sure he  _wants_  Cas to do this, but he doubts it’d go down well if he said that.

“Get to work,” Castiel orders, crisply, and when Dean next blinks, Cas disappears.

Staring at himself in the mirror on the wall, Dean gently tucks himself back into his pants – his neck is bruising. Jesus, he’s gonna be sore for  _weeks_.

A part of him likes that: a part of him he’s going to ignore.

 **☾** **✩** **☽** **↤** **❂** **ϟ** **ＳＵＰＥＲＮＡＴＵＲＡＬ** **ϟ** **❂** **↦** **☾** **✩** **☽**

It’s weird.

Cas is weird.

Dean is antsy that week, awkwardly meeting the gazes of girls in bars and then feeling a kind of panic go through him – he quits it, stares at his own lap, at the ceiling, at  _Sam_ , for Christ’s sake, just to keep from looking at some hottie in tiny shorts bending over a table.

It’s the middle of the fucking summer.

What is Cas’  _deal_?

And it’s stupid, Dean tells himself, stupid as Hell that Dean would worry about it – because yeah, apparently, getting choked and jacked off by an angel has joined his list of kinks, but ya know what? That doesn’t mean anything! It doesn’t mean he’s  _gay_. He’s always liked getting treated a little bit roughly, and the fact that it’s by the guy that  _raised him from perdition_  don’t mean anything. He’s been through _Hell_ , but—

Castiel isn’t his boss. Castiel isn’t his  _dad_. Castiel doesn’t get to choose what Dean does to get himself off – and for reals, you know, how does Dean getting some nookie distract him? Who’s it really hurting?

It certainly doesn’t hurt Dean, and he doesn’t treat girls that badly! He’s honest about what he’s after, ya know?

“Hi, sugar. You guys want some pie?” The waitress’ tits are like damned melons, barely squeezed into a tight blouse with her nipples hard as diamonds, and she has the same familiar smirk that Dean’s seen in dozens, in hundreds, of small-town diners – the smirk that says, “ _Come on, come play with me, I get so bored around here…”_

“What’s the special?” Sam asks mildly. He is restraining himself from rolling his eyes at the way she looks right at Dean, her gaze hungry.

“Cherry,” she says sweetly, teetering from her toe to her heel, and she meets Dean’s gaze. _Nope!_

“No pie for me,” Dean says gruffly, and he passes Sam a twenty as he walks out of the diner. Standing outside, he leans against the wall, drumming his fingers irritatedly against the denim covering his thighs. Jeeze, he’s not even that  _horny_. It’s just that—

Okay, look, he’ll admit it: Dean’s never had too much self-control, never really done all that well in denying him something he wants, and the only time he really has any discipline for himself is when someone’s telling him what to do, when Sam really nags at him or  _begs_  him, or when Dad or Bobby gives him an order. Dean never went into the military (he was in one or two cadets clubs in schools, when he was a kid) but he was raised to snap to, to keep his car and his guns in order, to obey orders when they were given. And it’s just… It’s just the temptation. And God, _God_ , after Hell? After Hell, where he threw himself into something _much fucking worse_ than kissing a girl, than—

Who’s to say he has _any_ self-control? Who’s to say Cas isn’t right about all this? Maybe he’s right, maybe…

It’s the idea that Dean, who has shitty self-control and is a  _shitty_  person even if he’s been made all real again after Hell, will fuck it up. He doesn’t want to fuck it up, even if he doesn’t get why the  _Hell_  Castiel’s like this in the first place.

Cas isn’t his dad, and he sure isn’t Bobby, but he—

He gave Dean an  _order_.

And Dean doesn’t like disobeying orders from people he actually respects.

“Cas,” he whispers, looking up towards the ceiling of the diner’s neon-bright porch. “Cas, please.” There’s the sudden, soft  _flutter_  of feathers on the air, and then Castiel is stood right beside him, staring Dean down. Castiel’s expression is pensive, and he examines Dean like Sam used to look at butterflies when he was a kid – it’s analytical, careful, a mix of clinical and tender. It’s the tender part that makes Dean falter, the softness in his blue eyes. He doesn’t deserve to be looked at like that, not by anybody, least of all by an _angel_ , and he takes a step back.

“It doesn’t seem to me that you’re in any sort of crisis, Dean,” Castiel says softly. His low voice is resonant, and Dean imagines he can feel it in his rib cage. Is it hard, he wonders? Is it hard for Castiel to keep his angelic voice, the one that shatters windows and makes Dean’s ears ring, inside him? Is it hard to keep himself crammed into that vessel?

No. Nah. He doesn’t want to think about the vessel right now.

“I, er— Nah, no, you’re right, I’m sorry, Cas, I just, uh—” Dean laughs, awkwardly, shrugging his shoulders. “You’re right. I shouldn’ta called ya, let me just—” Castiel places his hand on Dean’s upper arm, stopping him from walking back into the diner, and he looks over Dean’s shoulder. A thrill runs through him, to feel Castiel’s hand on the mark, and it feels _right_ , feels like a missing puzzle piece has snapped back into place. Does Castiel know, Dean wonders, how right it feels? How _normal_? How— perfect? Dean doesn’t know for certain, but judging by the way Castiel’s eyes follow around the room, he’s watching the hot waitress.

“I see,” Castiel says. He looks at Dean, and he smiles. It’s sort of weird on the other man’s face, on his square jaw – Dean doesn’t think Castiel’s ever smiled before, not like this, with his teeth not showing and his eyes warm and kind. That smile makes Dean kind of crumble inside, because he doesn’t deserve to be smiled at like that, not by an angel, not by anyone, and he takes an awkward step back once again. Castiel reaches out, gently cupping Dean’s cheeks in both of his hands, the soft-with-callouses hands of whatever poor shmuck he’s inhabiting, and he says, “You did well to call on me.”

“I did?” Dean whispers. The world morphs around them, leaving Dean momentarily disoriented, and they stand in his motel room.

“Unzip your jeans, Dean,” Castiel says, advancing on him, and Dean takes a few hurried steps back, waving his hands in front of his chest, and as Cas tilts his head like a confused bird, he does his best to speak hurriedly.

“Uh, no, no, no, look… Look, Cas, I don’t actually— like, not that I don’t  _wanna_ …” Dean is panicking a little, and he’s trying his best to keep himself calm, but Cas just looks so damned  _confused_.

“You wished to engage in sexual contact with the barmaid. You chose to call on me instead.”

“I didn’t want to  _engage in—_  Look, who do you think you are, Cas, Seven of Nine?” Castiel stares at him, blankly.

“I do not think that is who I am.”

“I didn’t want to have sex with her! She was just hot. I wasn’t gonna, I _wasn’t_. I shouldn’t’ve called you: I’m sorry.” Perplexed, Castiel is silent for a few moments. He is looking at Dean as if Dean is some complicated puzzle, as if there are parts of Dean he is looking for, but can’t quite see.

“For what reason did you call me, Dean?” Castiel asks. He doesn’t sound pissed, either, or even irritated. Dean wonders if he caught him on whatever the angel equivalent of a coffee break is.

“It doesn’t matter,” Dean mutters, and Castiel sets his jaw.

“It matters. Tell me now.” There’s a ring of something more in those words, the barest hint of an order, of angelic grace that thrums on the air and runs hot over Dean’s skin, and Dean swallows. Chewing on his lower lip (on the inside, so that Cas can’t see, but God knows he can probably see anyway), he hovers in the middle of the motel room, not sure what to say. “ _Dean_.” Castiel steps forwards, right into Dean’s personal space (God  _damn it_ , they’ve talked about this), so that his nose is close to Dean’s, so that his mouth is close too. Dean can feel the heat of his breath, which smells of absolutely nothing. “It mattered sufficiently enough that you called upon me. Have you a worry as to your brother’s condition? Has he been engaging… Suspiciously?”

“What? Leave Sammy outta this, man!” Dean snaps. “I just thought I’d _want_ to have sex with her. Not that I  _would_ , I wasn’t— I wasn’t gonna, I swear to Christ, Cas, but you just told me  _not_  to, and… Not that you can tell me whatever you want. I’m not your damned dog, right, but…”

“You felt you would be unable to resist temptation? Although you knew that you would, you feared that you would not?” Castiel asks. Dean stares down at his own knees, and he gives a nod of his head. There’s a length pause, and Castiel says, “We share more in common than I first believed.” Dean looks up, suddenly, staring into Castiel’s eyes.

“You really think it’s that much of a distraction?” Dean asks, in a quiet mutter. Castiel looks at him impassively, his expression quite neutral. “Cas, I don’t… What happened in Hell, I—”

“This isn’t about what you did in Hell, Dean,” Castiel murmurs quietly, his voice surprisingly gentle. Dean breathes in, a little shakily. “You are out of Hell, now: you are of Earth, once more. But this will make you _stronger_. You will resist your baser temptations, and you will find it easier to resist greater ones, later on. You, Dean Winchester, you are a _righteous_ man. You are good. You are—”

“Shut up, Cas,” Dean says, feeling the words snap off his tongue, desperate and sharp and made of shattered edges, and Castiel’s hand touches against his cheek. It isn’t like the touch from the other night, it isn’t possessive and controlling and painful: the touch is featherlight, and he touches Dean as if he is something precious. Dean can’t bear it, can’t stand the words he says, so full of piety and so damned serious, cannot stand how _gentle_ he is—

“How many women have you lain with since your return to Earth?” Dean clears his throat, putting his hands in his pockets and turning away. He feels the ghost of Castiel’s fingers on his jaw, and he feels himself shudder even as he works up a teasing, smug tone.

“A nice girl doesn’t kiss and tell, Cas.” Dozens. Dean doesn’t remember their names, but he’s been back two months now, and it’s not as if he hasn’t been _around_. He’s always been kind of a… He’s always slept around. It’s just something to _do_.

“Indeed, that many,” Cas says, as if he can hear Dean’s thoughts. “You could have been thinking on more important matters, researching, even bonding with your brother. It opens you to a  _host_  of venereal diseases, and causes you to risk, unnecessarily, your life and person, when you lie with these untrustworthy women.” Castiel reaches out, pulling Dean’s jacket from his shoulders with a surprising gentleness, and he says, “Most of all, your new body, made for you without sin, free of your scars, your indiscretions, knows not of your past follies. You ought engage anew in personal discipline. I can assist you with that.” Laying Dean’s jacket on the bed, Castiel’s hands turn him around, and then move to the buttons of Dean’s plaid shirt, working dexterously but slowly.

Dean’s brow is furrowed, and he stares at Cas, watching him without really being able to say anything, to do anything more. Castiel focuses on the buttons, as if undoing them is complicated and difficult, needing a lot of concentration, and Dean lets him. He doesn’t know why: he just does. Castiel pushes the shirt off of his shoulders as well, laying it on top of Dean’s jacket, and Dean says, feeling a sudden flare of guilt, “Cas, isn’t this… You know, not fun for you?”

“It is neither fun or  _not_  fun,” Castiel answers. He drops to a slow crouch, busying himself with the laces of Dean’s boots, and Dean obediently steps out of each of them, and then out of his socks. It feels wrong, to let Castiel kneel down in front of him like this, and Dean swallows tightly. Castiel cups Dean’s left heel, peering with apparent concern at Dean’s foot, where his big toenail is dark underneath with bruising – Dean is lucky, though, and he knows the nail wasn’t damaged enough to fall out. “What happened?”

“Dropped a steel cage on my foot in that warehouse job a few days back. Even through the boots, life ain’t perfect.” Castiel hums a disapproving note, and Dean feels warmth spread through the flesh of his foot, tingling on the skin.

When Dean looks back down, all of his nails are the same uniform pink, and the bruising is cleaned away. _Your new body_ , Cas’d said. _Made for you without sin_.

Castiel stands once more, unbuttoning and slowly unzipping Dean’s jeans: he doesn’t seem to be in any kinda hurry, but he doesn’t seem like he’s struggling either. He just seems to enjoy taking his sweet time with it, and Dean doesn’t know what the Hell to  _say_  to that. It’s  _weird_. Maybe this is why they picked Cas to get him in the first place – same as whoever the first crazy ass Vulcan was in _Star Trek_ , who was willing to jump to the Vulcan equivalent of third base with some human freak and shake hands with him right off the bat. Maybe Castiel’s a _perv_ – maybe that’s his deal.

He still feels guilty.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Dean says, curling his toes into the filthy carpet. “It didn’t even hurt.” Castiel slides his thumbs into the waistband of Dean’s boxers, pushing them and his jeans slowly down Dean’s thighs, down to his ankles, and Dean steps neatly out of them. He doesn’t feel nervous about his body, not really – Cas has seen him naked plenty of times, Dean’s sure.

“I don’t have to do anything,” Castiel says, and he lays Dean’s jeans on the side of the bed, his pants on top. He looks like he’s laying out clothes for a fucking Ken doll.

“You got some kind of OCD?” Dean asks, and he nods to the state of his clothes, which are completely symmetrically arranged, with the lowest layers on the top. Castiel frowns at him, not seeming to understand, but it doesn’t matter. Castiel pushes Dean onto the other motel bed, slowly, slowly, and Dean goes. Cas seems to be weighing something up in his mind, and Dean says, “What?”

“Put your feet up, please,” Cas murmurs. Dean obeys, spreading his ankles slightly and lying back with his head on the pillow, spread on top of the sheets. “I’ve always admired the human form. My brothers believe it to be clumsy, awkward, wingless and small, with so few limbs and faces—”

“You got multiple faces?” Dean asks immediately, but Castiel ignores him.

“But I feel there’s a certain artistry to your composition. My Father did well.” Castiel makes his way onto the bed, kneeling between Dean’s own knees, and his fingers trace from the top of Dean’s kneecaps up to the base of his thighs. With just his fingertips touching Dean’s skin, he moves them up higher, over his belly, over Dean’s chest, and when his fingers draw around Dean’s shoulders, his thumb traces the bruises he’d left, a few days ago, around Dean’s neck.

They’re turning to yellow and weird purples, now, and Castiel says quietly, “Explain to me the process of bruising, Dean.”

“Uh,” Dean says, thinking about childhood biology lessons from Dad, when he was explaining when you needed to use antiseptic and when you didn’t, when you needed to see a doctor, and ninety percent of the time, when you didn’t. “So you know we got veins, yeah? Well, there’s little blood vessels in the layers of skin, and when you get hit real hard or there’s too much pressure, they burst. But since they’re not in the veins themselves, the blood kinda leaks out, and it colours the skin underneath. That’s why the blood changes colour, yeah? The stuff that makes blood red gets broken down.”

“Haemoglobin, it is called. The _stuff_ is called haemoglobin,” Castiel murmurs, his thumb tracing the lines his fingers had left. “Through the process of phagocytosis, haemoglobin is degraded into other products, which are eventually cleared entirely from the traumatised area.” With Castiel leaned over him like this, his tie hangs down from inside his stupid coat, tickling over the skin of his belly, the fabric of his suit pants touching the insides of Dean’s knees.

“If you have a fucking degree in the subject, why’d you ask me?” Dean asks, and he’s rewarded with a soft press on the bruises, which makes him let out a gasping little noise at the pleasant twinge of pain.

“I wanted to see if you knew,” Castiel answers mildly, looking amused. Dean wonders if he has an actual sense of humour, or if he’s just defective and kind of weird. And a _perv_. Dean shudders out a breath as he feels the fingers drag over his collarbone, and he can’t escape the tingle that shoots downward, making his cock give a twitch between his legs.

“What, you not gonna heal that one?” Dean asks breathlessly. Castiel chuckles, and the sound of it, the _look_ of it, Jesus, Jesus. Dean’d thought these guys were meant to be like marble statues, but Castiel’s little laugh is— It’s _cute_.

“Would you not consider that hypocrisy?” Castiel asks, and Dean laughs, nervously. With Castiel on top of him, it’s kinda hard  _not_  to show a little interest, and he can feel himself getting kinda hard, his dick against the lower part of Castiel’s shirt. “You enjoy being hurt, do you not, Dean?”

“Not on a hunt or anything, but in bed, sure.” Castiel curls his fingers, drawing his nails slowly down the flesh of Dean’s chest, and Dean lets out a soft sound, tipping back his head and closing his eyes. “What, there something wrong with that?” He thinks of Hell. Thinks of hurting people, thinks of being hurt, thinks of being on the rack and the days where Alastair would drag the agony tighter in his chest with pleasure, too, the way—

“ _No_ ,” Castiel says, firmly. The train of thought stops short, and Dean opens his eyes, keeping his gaze on Castiel’s focused expression. “The human body is a complex machine, and from person to person, one will find a different analysis of pleasurable sensation. The differences between pain and pleasure, hot and cold, tickling and tingling, pressure and relief… Your body is your vessel, Dean, as mine is my own.” Castiel’s fingers grip around the divot of Dean’s hips, and he leans back on his heels, looking at Dean’s cock. It’s hard. Dean feels  _obscene_. “You ought understand your body’s functions and processes. Your desire to be hurt is not purely psychological. Your desire for pain is not prompted only by your belief that you deserve it.” Gee, that just… That punches Dean right in the stomach, and he feels his mouth go dry.

Castiel leans down, bringing his head down so that he’s level with Dean’s dick, examining it from the side and then looking at it from above. His kneels shuffle in, so that they’re between Dean’s calves, and his breath is warm against Dean’s crown as he leans in close. He can see Castiel’s nostrils flare as he inhales, as he takes in the _scent_ of Dean’s cock. He tilts his head slightly, as if breathing it right into his lungs, as if he’s analysing it.

“Cas, no, you don’t have to—” Castiel’s mouth closes around the head of Dean’s cock, and Dean  _heaves_  in his breath. Castiel doesn’t need to breathe, Dean is reminded in the next twelve to thirteen seconds. He relaxes his throat and lowers his head completely, taking Dean’s cock into his mouth, into his  _damned throat_ , and he shouldn’t be able to do that! He’s an angel! What the Hell kind of practice does  _he_  have with blowjobs?

Castiel bobs his head slowly, concentrating on the work with his eyes closed, his lips twisted in a slight frown, and then he adjusts his position, flicking his tongue over the bundle of nerves just under Dean’s crown, playing over his foreskin; his right hand takes Dean’s balls in his hand, tugging at them and rolling them in his hand, feeling their weight. Castiel draws back, looking at Dean’s dick like it’s a damned  _science_  exhibit.

“Men engage in penetrative sex, do they not? Do you find it to be more satisfying than oral copulation?” Dean groans, the sound a little reedy and coming from deep in his throat.

“Cas, please don’t ask me your _Weird Science_ questions when you’ve got your hand on my balls,” Dean begs him, trying to keep his tone measured without it cracking in the middle, and Castiel hums, putting his other hand around Dean’s cock and slowly squeezing, moving his hand up and down the length of it.

“The human penis fascinates me,” Castiel says gravely: Dean wants to laugh, but instead he lets out a kind of moaned wheeze. Castiel begins to speed his hand’s movements by a fraction, and he acts, “Do you require a rougher hand, Dean? Do you have need of a sterner touch?” Dean shakes his head, but Castiel continues on, and says, “What effect would it have on you were I to strike you with my hand? Were I to take you over my knee, as a disgraced child?”

Dean groans at the thought: he imagines being over Castiel’s legs, feeling his stupid suit underneath his body, feeling Castiel’s soft hands smack hard against his buttocks, being thrown forwards with each hard blow. Angel strength, angel strength, all wrapped up in a _spanking_. Castiel doesn’t mind leaving bruises, so what the Hell would Dean’s ass look like? Would he just have some rainbow of bruises on his asscheeks, unable to sit comfy for weeks as they healed up?

“Have you a preference for my hand over my tongue, Dean?” Castiel asks. “How pleasing would you find it, were I to bruise your backside “to kingdom come”, as the phrase goes, and then trace the new marks with my tongue?” Dean whines.

He tips his hips up and into Castiel’s hand, clenching his muscles and thrusting up against the touch: Castiel’s hand tightens slightly, to the  _perfect_  grip, and Dean closes his eyes tightly shut. “I’m gonna—”

“You have my permission to orgasm,” Castiel murmurs, and a few moments later he twists his hand: Dean tips over the edge. His cock pulses in Castiel’s hand, and he feels the wetness spurt, but it doesn’t land on his belly. When he opens his eyes, Castiel is examining the pearly-white fluid on the back of his hand with apparent interest. For a long few moments, they sit like that, in silence, Dean breathing heavily, Castiel silent in his curious focus upon Dean’s come. He watches, awestruck, as Castiel brings the back of his hand up to his mouth… And _licks_.

His spent cock twitches, and Dean has to stop himself from whimpering as he looks at Castiel. The rest of the come is gone in a flash, miracled away to Christ knows where, and Dean knows he should say something, that he should break the damned silence somehow.

“You weren’t this calm the other day,” Dean mumbles. Castiel looks at him curiously, and he sets his hand delicately on the muscle of Dean’s thigh. Dean swallows.

“I had other things on my mind,” Castiel responds, his tone not unkind, “You are not my only duty, Dean.”

“I’m the only one you jack off, though, right?” Dean cannot quite help the bit of guilt that weighs the words, but Castiel doesn’t seem at all perturbed. Once more, his lips twitch into a slight smile.

“You are the only one worth jacking off,” Castiel says, and then adds, “Moreover, I feel it would add some tensions to my familial relations, were I to insist on such a thing.” Dean chokes on his own spit, and he sits up, trying to stop himself from laughing too hard, but Castiel doesn’t seem angry. He seems… He seems pleased. “Call on me when you have further need of me, Dean. It is well within your abilities to engage in sexual discipline, but… Sex is a natural part of human existence, Dean. It is not a sin to feel pleasure, to desire touch.” Castiel’s hand spreads a little wider on Dean’s thigh, and Dean inhales a little shakily. “But the _way_ in which you approach sex… I think this can improve. Your body is _important_ , Dean. To have sex, inherently, is not to devalue it, but I feel that you… do _not_ value it. That you do not value your body.”

Dean’s body isn’t important. Dean’s body is just like Castiel said, it’s a _vessel_ – it gets him from place to place, and it does what he needs it to do, so long as he keeps it fed and watered and fucked, so long as he keeps healthy. Castiel seems to be thinking of something else, though, something _higher_ … And his hand is damn big on Dean’s thigh. Big. Strong. Masculine.

“I’m not gay, you know,” Dean says. Castiel blinks at him.

“What?”

“I’m not gay,” Dean says. “I’m not into guys.” Castiel peers down at him, his expression quietly curious.

“Okay,” he says. “So?”

“So this, _this_ , it’s— it’s an exception. I’m not into dudes, Cas, and I’m not gonna go and, and, I don’t know. Go to an Elton John concert.”

“I’m not a man, Dean,” Castiel says, his voice dripping with condescending amusement. “I am a genderless being, of a size on par with your greatest skyscrapers. I am not human – and angels, we are not like demons. We were not human _once_. We are _different_ to you: _I_ am different to you.” Dean swallows, looking at Castiel, feeling something inside him, feeling something…

“Does it hurt?” Dean asks softly, watching Castiel’s lips part. “Being… Being stuck into that body. Crammed into the meatsuit. Doesn’t it hurt?” Castiel’s smile is soft and indulgent, and his fingers slides from his thigh up to his hip, further up, further up. Dean’s breath catches in his throat when Castiel’s palm presses against the print at his shoulder, and once more is that feeling – completeness, pleasant, tingling warmth… Dean leans in closer, forgetting himself, leans in to reach for Castiel’s mouth with his own.

Castiel is gone with a flutter of invisible wings, and Dean shudders.

 **☾** **✩** **☽** **↤** **❂** **ϟ** **ＳＵＰＥＲＮＡＴＵＲＡＬ** **ϟ** **❂** **↦** **☾** **✩** **☽**

That night, Dean dreams of Castiel.

He dreams that Castiel drags him by the hair and kisses him so solidly, so firmly, that Dean feels like he is grounded, like Castiel will never let him go, and he feels _safe_. He feels like Hell will never touch him, never touch him again, and when he looks away from Castiel, he sees Alastair _burn_.

He relaxes right against Castiel’s side, feels the stiffness of his body underneath Dean’s chest, and he feels Castiel’s hand clasp tight over his shoulder.

He wakes with a wetness sticky between his legs, and when he showers, he thinks of self-control. 

**Author's Note:**

> [Hit me up](http://dictionarywrites.tumblr.com/faq). Requests always open.


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